<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Aefder; Adhart by Lohrendrell</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603811">Aefder; Adhart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell'>Lohrendrell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lohre's Witcher Flash Fic Entries [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gwent: The Witcher Card Game, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(if you squint), F/F, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Rare Pairings, Time Travel Fix-It, Worldbuilding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:41:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a stubborn one, a’cher.”</p><p>Milva snorts, crosses her arms. “It saved your life once. In that river.”</p><p>“I saved yours in that castle.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“No debts left between us. Go.”</p><p>“That’s not what this is about,” Milva snaps, losing patience. She catches herself, sighs, and then, more softly, says, “I said I wouldn’t leave you.”</p><p>.</p><p>(In which Herkja Drummond is the missing element to change the fate of Geralt's hansa, and Milva has feelings.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Herkja Drummond/Maria Barring | Milva</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lohre's Witcher Flash Fic Entries [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2281916</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #016</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Aefder; Adhart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For reference: <a href="https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Herkja_Drummond">Herkja Drummond</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tales aren’t truthful after all. Skellige isn’t green with vivid pastures, it isn’t blood-red from the neverending battles of its people, and it isn’t crisp with fresh life from its strange animals. Skellige is grey, with dark clouds looming over the isles that look more like giant rocks than anything; no verdant hills, no sparkle of life, only angry waves hitting the giant stones in the shore—a makeshift fortress protecting against inevitable disaster.</p><p>Milva supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that the tales and ballads do not live up to reality. Very few things do. Brokilon isn’t as exquisite as the songs make it seem either.</p><p>They make their way uphill, their steps quickly disappearing in the sand, swept by the waves. The ocean opens and breaks repeatedly, agitated. Skelligan legends say the sea flips with fury when mourning the deaths of its brethren—if these legends hold any true whatsoever, Milva guesses it isn’t grief in the salty foams now; it’s just confusion.</p><p>The weather is cold. The frost feels as if they were caught under midnight moonlight after a noonwraith’s apparition, even though it’s barely past noon. They all clutch their cloaks and blanket tighter around themselves, breathing hot steam into the air, except for Regis.</p><p>They walk for so long Milva thinks Angoulême might break the silence and ask how far they are, how long is it going to take yet. For once, though, the girl notices the world past her own nose, and follows the otherworldly Skelliger warrior’s steps quietly.</p><p><i>Dromainn Marw</i>. The final residence of the members of Clan Drummond.</p><p>Milva remembers very little of her birthplace (her own choice, made a long time ago), but she does remember the cemetery. It looked nothing like this—no iron gates made of spears, no sculptures of dire bears brandishing warhammers and big swords. There had been no natural decoration of beautiful wine-colored flowers in the pathway, there had only been wildflowers and tumbleweeds invading the simple tombstones. One memory is still fresh on her mind: cleaning her father’s grave with her bare hands. She had digged through the tumbleweeds and the dirt until her fingers bled, barely able to see a palm of distance from her drenched eyes. It had been the first time the arsehole her mother married caught her alone in the house, and the first time Milva had ever thought <i>no more</i>.</p><p>Herkja Drummond kneels in front of the imposing tombstone, the plates on her knees clinking softly when touching the ground. The gravesite is old but well-maintained, enough so that it’s easy to see the resemblance between the full-body sculpture and the woman kneeling before it.</p><p>An old, austere, stone-made man stands before his visiting daughter, who is still alive despite the odds. Milva, Angoulême, Cahir, and Regis stand a few respectful steps away, silent and unmoving.</p><p>“Da,” Herkja whispers, forlorn, and says something Milva doesn’t understand. Skelligan elder speech.</p><p>The hot steam of Herkja’s sigh is the first real sign of melancholy since she joined the company all those months ago. Oddly, to Milva it’s also the first real assurance that she’s real, that she’s there, despite everything they’ve been through together.</p><p>The distance between father and daughter is measured in centuries, and yet it isn’t difficult to see how much Herkja aches, as if it had only been a little while—because it has, to her.</p><p>“I am—I was <i>an'givare</i>,” Herkja says in common tongue, with her heavy—and old—accent. Milva has met a few Skelligers before, but none who talked exactly like her. “Spied fo’ me dad. Kept watch, warned o’ intruders.” She gestures briefly at the rustic air horn on her belt.</p><p>Regis shifts uncomfortably by Milva’s side. “An exquisite sound,” he says, awkward and embarrassed—a rare sight. The vampire likes to talk, and isn’t above blabbering at any given moment, especially when he doesn’t know what else to do—also rare.</p><p>Herkja snorts. “Indeed, vampire. Me dad’s pride I was. The best in our blood.”</p><p>Milva has long ago learned the telltale signs of Regis’s discomfort, as well as his quirks when trying to escape those situations. He feels guilty, that much is obvious, even though it wasn’t his fault. There was no way any of them could predict what would happen when Angoulême blew the strange horn he had found.</p><p>Milva touches his arm before he starts rambling idly, shaking her head, not unkindly.</p><p>“I was supposed to die by his side,” Herkja says. She touches her horn again, gripping it in her fist—a nervous reaction.</p><p>Herkja’s horn—<i>anadl rhyfel</i>, she calls it, with such fondness they almost confused the war instrument for a baby at first—has intricate paintings and a small green emerald, matching with the one Regis found in that cave in Toussaint. It had disappeared in her hands at the same time Herkja appeared in their time, in their lives.</p><p>They are all still unsure of how it was done exactly, how it happened. Geralt’s hypothesis had been some kind of spell, though one he had never seen before, and couldn’t know how to reverse it. His sorceress hadn’t known either—they hadn’t been very concerned about it, both of them, not after they found their Ciri.</p><p>Which led to the company’s separation, the ones that stayed together vowing to help Herkja find her way back home whereas Geralt gathered his peers and walked another path.</p><p>“How did he go?” Herkja asks. “Fighting, I hope.”</p><p>“Legend says Skjordal Drummond died in the battlefield,” Cahir says softly, “beheaded by Harald an Craite, the Cripple. History books say he died by… by his daughter’s side. Watched her fall during battle. Watched her—you. Watched you <i>go</i>.”</p><p>“Hah. That he did. Not in the way you’d think.”</p><p>She traces the inscriptions in her father’s gravestone with the tip of her calloused fingers. Milva can’t read the words.</p><p>“What else?”</p><p>There’s a second gravestone next to Skjordall Drummond’s. It’s devoid of a statue. Milva can’t read its inscriptions either.</p><p>Cahir opens his mouth, pauses, closes it again. He hesitates, breathes, and finally says, “You… you were… Uh. There are no records of your body. You were never found.”</p><p>Herkja snorts again, her shoulders shaking a little. “Hah,” she says. “That’s almost poetic, boy, dun you think?”</p><p>“I’m really sorry,” Cahir offers.</p><p>Herkja’s shoulders rise and fall with the force of her deep breathing. She doesn’t look at them when she says—orders, really, with a strained voice, “You can go now. All of you.”</p><p>“We won’t leave you,” Milva says quickly—too quickly, Regis and Cahir have their gaze on her, she can feel it, but she doesn’t look back at them.</p><p>“You will.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Leave.”</p><p>Cahir is the first to obey. Regis follows right after.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Angoulême says, very quietly and looking very small, before walking away. Milva hears the double meaning of her words, but doesn’t comfort the girl.</p><p>She doesn’t move.</p><p>Waves break loudly on the heavy stones by the shore, a turbulent sound, almost as if they were personally offended. If Milva can hear them from this distance, the tide must have risen. It must be battling the solid ground for dominance right now. She pictures with her mind’s eye the salty foams against the stonewalls, the angry storms off-shore that caught them in their tiny boat, the Skelliger warrior’s expertise the only thing preventing their demise in the sea.</p><p>Herkja is a terrifying maelstrom, with her heavy accent and big brown eyes and ancient ways and strange <i>everything</i>. Milva is just an estranged non-dryad, a simple forest girl with an arch and a bow. She knows nothing except for firm land, but <i>still</i> she doesn’t move. </p><p>It’s a long time before Herkja speaks again. “You’re a stubborn one, a’cher.”</p><p>Milva snorts, crosses her arms. “It saved your life once. In that river.”</p><p>“I saved yours in that castle.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“No debts left between us. Go.”</p><p>“That’s not what this is about,” Milva snaps, losing patience. She catches herself, sighs, and then, more softly, says, “I said I wouldn’t leave you.”</p><p>“I want to be left.”</p><p>Milva takes two tentative steps forward, talking slowly. “I said the same thing when I lost my dad.” More steps. “Barked it, really, for anyone who wanted to hear—and for those who didn’t too.” When she stops, it’s by Herkja’s side. “Biggest bullcrap I’ve ever tried to pull.”</p><p>Herkja’s gaze finds her only briefly, but long enough for Milva to notice the distinct shine. Milva pictures the barricades beavers used to build in the rivers of Brokilon, the excess of water flooding everything behind it, engulfing life, pointy sticks held together tight inward, puncturing the water.</p><p>It is painful to hold oneself in their own inner barricade. The pointy sticks would break the water into little pieces if it let them. Milva would know.</p><p>She squats next to Herkja at first, sitting down properly after a couple of minutes go by without protest. There’s only silence except for the rebellious tidal waves. Herkja’s rough calloused fingers trace the words on her father’s grave. Milva doesn’t stare, she doesn’t understand the words or the peculiar and alluring softness of those fingertips. She watches the wine-colored flowers instead. They’re being coated with white from the frost, slowly but steadily.</p><p>“I thought I’d live to see him pass,” Herkja says after a long while. “Follow up to his name.”</p><p>“I’m really sorry.”</p><p>“The Drummonds are no more.” A statement, even though she’s been avoiding asking Cahir or Regis for the history of her people. “I don’t need to roam my land to know.”</p><p>Milva stays silent.</p><p>“We lost the war,” Herkja continues. “I thought we might. Our enemies were too many, me dad too old, our forces straining. Erjka’s queensguard was no more. We were doomed.”</p><p>“Not all battles are lost,” Milva says slowly, tentatively. “We’ll find a way to send you back.” It aches to promise it; she ignores it. “To before it all.”</p><p>“I don’t find that appropriate either. Not anymore.”</p><p>“... But do you want to?”</p><p>“I’ve got nothin’ left.” Herkja’s words leave her mouth with a shuddering breath. Milva feels the warrior’s sorrow in her own bones.</p><p>“Bullcrap,” Milva says. “You’ve got us.” <i>Me</i>, she doesn’t say.</p><p>Herkja doesn’t reply. Milva can’t tell what she thinks of that. Herkja is a mystery in many ways, Milva can’t even tell whether she appreciates their company—<i>her</i> company—or is just tolerating them. She knows Herkja joined them on a whim, out of necessity—no one else knew the secret, no sorcerers were trustworthy, she barely understood their way of speaking, only Regis could understand her properly.</p><p>Milva has been paying attention, and while she’s usually right in her observations, she now can’t even tell whether Herkja appreciates their company—<i>her</i> company—or not. </p><p>Sometimes, though, Milva thinks she might enjoy them. She’s been paying attention. It’s in those little moments, when Herkja laughs at Angoulême's antics, when she and Regis are talking in their own private tongue, when she scoffs around everything that pisses Milva off—Herkja gets it, and Milva dares to be sure she fits right in with them (with her), but she can’t know for real, and she definitely can’t ask.</p><p>She wants to hold Herkja by the shoulders and scream that this is her place, this is her time now, there’s no reason to go back.</p><p>She knows it’s a selfish thing to do, though, so she starts picking at the wine-colored flowers instead. They are damp, almost frozen. The whole air is damp, actually. Herkja is shaking quietly, head held low over her father’s grave. She cleans the pretty flowers, pulling at them carefully. Milva pretends not to notice the droplets falling steadily in the petals. Herkja’s fingers don’t bleed, even after she’s cleaned everything.</p><p>Nighttime is near when the silence between them finally breaks.</p><p>“I want to show y’all me keep,” Herkja says, her voice trembling still. “If it’s still standing, that is.”</p><p>“Do you think it’s safe?”</p><p>Herkja shrugs. “Who cares about that? Ya lot’re a bunch of castle-invaders crazed fuckers anyway.”</p><p>Milva can’t control the ugly snort and the laughter quick enough.</p><p>Waves crash, retreat, and come back again, and Milva manages to control herself. Herkja does too, she notices from the corner of her vision.</p><p>“Milva?” Herkja asks, very quietly, after some time.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Where does one go after losing everything?”</p><p>Milva thinks of her father. She thinks of the baby she lost. She thinks of Geralt spiralling in despair, losing control in the pursuit of his child.</p><p>A life for a life, Milva had said once. She thinks of the girl with the nasty scar on her cheek for whom she risked her life—for whom they all nearly didn’t come back. An ungrateful little shit, that girl, separating them after everything.</p><p>She thinks of Geralt’s face when they’d found her. She thinks of his face when he’d told them he wouldn’t be going with them to Skellige. Giving them his back after they didn’t give him theirs. Going away with the family he’d found, heading towards a new battle, to exact revenge, to go back to Toussaint for the other one he’d lost, or whatever the fuck Geralt is really doing these days.</p><p>Milva had resented him. For giving them his back they didn’t give him theirs.</p><p>Now, though… In an ancient gravesite surrounded by angry waves and a dark sky, in the presence of an otherworldly woman, Milva thinks she understands.</p><p>She doesn’t know how to describe it. She doesn’t have the words.</p><p>“Forward,” Milva answers.</p><p>Herkja hums.</p><p>Eventually, Herkja says, “We have—we <i>had</i> some sort of ritual with these.” She holds one flower with her fingers.</p><p>“How was it?” Milva asks. Herkja doesn’t answer, just stares at the tiny, nearly frozen petals. She cleans the frost off, but the edges of the petals have already lost their colour.</p><p>She eats the flower.</p><p>It’s not the strangest thing Milva has ever seen—she’s been both at Brokilon and with the strangest people for company. Even so, she can’t help grimacing.</p><p>“Hm.” Herkja smiles. “Tastes the same.”</p><p>“What are those?”</p><p>“<i>Doethineb hynafiaid</i>. For endurance and good luck. Your turn now.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>Herkja pushes the flowers in her hands into Milva’s. “Eat it.”</p><p>“I didn’t leave Eithné’s realm to keep eating fucking flowers, Herkja.”</p><p>“Eat it, a’cher. You’ll like it.”</p><p>Milva scoots a little away—a mockery of actually evading the deed, really. Herkja’s enthusiasm outside of battle is novelty, her cheeks and nose are rosy from the emotions, and her eyes are very brown.</p><p>She eats the godsdamned semi-frozen flower.</p><p>“Pox on it.” Milva grimaces. “Tastes like horseshit. What kind of ritual is this?”</p><p>Herkja chuckles softly. She spits the flower onto the palm of her hand. It’s nearly untouched—she hadn’t eaten it. “Rite of passage. In your tongue we’d call it The Youngling Fool.”</p><p>Milva gasps, too stunned to say anything.</p><p>Herkja touches her father’s grave again, says something Milva doesn’t understand, and gets up.</p><p>She’s walking away and Milva is just… staring.</p><p>“Sleeping there, a’cher?” Herkja asks without looking back.</p><p>Milva quickly gets up on her feet.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>